After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar

by Joshua Palmatier; Patricia Bray

  “Mary Jackson. She owns a tavern, does she not?”

  “Th’ Brazen Head.”

  “Do you know what kind of magic she wants?” Gil asked.

  “Uh huh. She been chasin’ tha’ merchant o’ hers for more than a year now. She wants me t’ spell him. Make him see her different, or somethin’.”

  “So cast your spell, make her pay a lot of money, and send her on her way.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Janna said. “But I don’ like her usin’ Tiller tha’ way. He’s barely more than a child.”

  “I’m not a child,” Tiller said, loud enough for both of them to hear.

  He heard Janna sigh, then heard her walk out from behind the bar.

  “You weren’ supposed t’ be listenin’,” she said, sitting down across from him, a small smile on her lips.

  “I’m not a child,” Tiller said.

  Her expression sobered. “I know you’re no’. I’m sorry for sayin’ that.”

  “I might not be smart like you and Gil, but I get by all right.”

  “Yes, you do. Bu’ tha’ don’ give her th’ right t’ use you as a way of talkin’ t’ me.”

  “Maybe I used her,” Tiller said. “I’m the one who got free food.”

  Janna stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Well, tha’s true enough, isn’ it?” She eyed him a moment longer, shaking her head, a big grin on her face. Then she patted his arm, stood, and walked back to the bar.

  Tiller sipped his ale, pleased with himself. It wasn’t every day that he managed to make Janna laugh like that.

  The feeling didn’t last long. A few minutes after Janna left him, the door to the tavern opened, flooding the great room with silver light. Tiller twisted around in his chair and saw that Miss Jackson had come.

  She stood at the entrance to the tavern for a moment, squinting in the dim light. Her gaze passed over Tiller as if he wasn’t there and settled on the bar where Janna stood, a scowl on her lean face.

  “There you are, Janna,” Miss Jackson said, as if she and Janna were old friends. She walked to the bar, pulling off her mitts and unbuttoning her coat. “What a lovely aroma. What are you cooking?”

  “Chowder,” Janna said stiffly.

  “Would you mind spooning me a bowl? I must try it.”

  Janna eyed the woman, her tongue pushing out her cheek. But then she stalked into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with a bowl and spoon, which she placed on the bar. “Four pence,” she said.

  “Yes, of course,” Miss Jackson said. But she didn’t pull out her purse. Instead, she took up her spoon and tasted the chowder.

  “Oh, that’s very good. Even better than my own. And I grew up eating chowder.”

  Janna frowned, picked up her polishing rag, and started to make her way to the far end of the bar.

  “Hold on there, Janna. I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  Janna stopped and faced her again. “Yes, Mary, what is it?”

  A cold smile flitted across Miss Jackson’s face. She glanced briefly in Tiller’s direction. “There’s something else I’d like you to do for me,” she said, her voice dropping. “I’ll pay whatever you normally charge, but I want it done today.”

  “Uh huh. And wha’ would tha’ be?”

  “I think you know,” Miss Jackson said, still speaking quietly.

  Janna walked back to where Miss Jackson sat. “No,” she said.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I won’ do it.”

  “Won’t do what?”

  “I won’ be castin’ a spell for you. I don’ care how much money you have.”

  Miss Jackson glanced around quickly, like she thought that lots of people were listening. Tiller was. But the two old men in the back didn’t seem to care what she said.

  “You don’t even know what kind of magic I want,” she told Janna, whispering now.

  Janna grinned, her teeth sharp and pale yellow. “You wan’ a love spell. You wan’ tha’ man you fancy t’ leave his missus and come ‘roun’ t’—”

  Miss Jackson stood abruptly, spilling her chowder onto Janna’s bar. “How dare you!”

  “I don’ like you usin’ my friends t’ ge’ t’ me. I don’ like you comin’ ‘roun’ my place an’ pretendin’ you an’ me got anythin’ in common.” Janna crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin. “I don’ like you.”

  “I will not be spoken to in that way! Certainly not by a Negro! I don’t hold with slavery, but I believe a lashing would do you some good!”

  Janna laughed. “My Mama always though’ so, too. Turns out she was wrong.” She started to mop up the spilled chowder. “I think i’s time you were leavin’, Mary.”

  Miss Jackson didn’t move. “I need this done.”

  “You’ll have t’ find someone else t’ do it.”

  “Ten pounds.”

  Tiller’s mouth fell open. Ten pounds! He couldn’t remember ever seeing that much money.

  Janna didn’t even look up. “No.”

  “Fifteen.”

  Janna picked up the bowl and spoon, and started toward the kitchen. “Goodbye, Mary.”

  Miss Jackson leaned forward, her hands on the bar. “There are those in Boston who would be quite alarmed to learn that a witch lives here in the city,” she said, her whisper sounding harsh, like a spitting cat.

  Janna halted.

  “There are clergy—men I know—who would relish the chance to hang a servant of Satan.”

  “You can’ prove anythin’.”

  “I don’t have to. I’m a Christian woman and you’re a Negro, a former slave. My word against yours. Be smart, woman. Who do you think people will believe?”

  Janna walked back to the bar and carefully put down the bowl. Gil loomed in the doorway behind her, but he hung back and kept silent.

  “All I want is one spell,” Miss Jackson said, whispering again. “Cast it, and you have nothing to fear from me. You can have the money, and you can keep your tavern.” She surveyed the room, her lip curling. “Such as it is.”

  Janna took a long, weary breath. “One spell, you say?”

  Miss Jackson smiled, opening her hands. “That’s all.”

  “An’ otherwise you’ll tell everyone tha’ I’m a witch.”

  “You leave me no choice.”

  Janna shrugged. “My answer is still no.” Her expression went stony. “Now get out o’ my place.”

  Miss Jackson looked like she had been slapped. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks pale, her mouth open in a small ‘o.’ At last she drew herself up and said, “Fine, then! You’ll be in prison by nightfall.”

  She was halfway to the door when a booming voice said, “Wait!”

  Miss Jackson stopped.

  “I will do this magic you want,” Gil said, stepping to the bar.

  “Gil, no!”

  “Forgive Janna,” Gil said, his gaze never leaving Miss Jackson’s face. “She forgets herself sometimes. Just as she forgets that I do not work for her or follow her commands.”

  Miss Jackson walked slowly back to the bar. “You can do magic, too?” she asked quietly.

  A sly smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I have some skill, yes.” He tapped the bar with his hand. “Put your money here, and I will cast for you.”

  “Gil—”

  “Get the tablet,” he said to Janna.

  She shook her head. “Don’ do this. Jus’ let her go.”

  “Get the tablet.”

  Tiller had never seen such fear in Janna’s eyes. She walked out from behind the bar and over to the hearth. She dragged a chair over, and stood on it so that she could reach a large square slab that hung over the fireplace. Tiller had seen it on the wall before, but had never paid much attention to it. It was similar in color to the bricks used to build Faneuil Hall, and it was covered with strange lines and symbols. Given how Janna cradled it in her thin arms, Tiller guessed that it was heavy.

  “Do you want me to carry that
, Janna?” he asked.

  She merely shook her head and carried it back to the bar.

  Miss Jackson had placed several coins on the wood.

  “Good,” Gil said, when Janna placed the tablet before him. “Now, fill a cup with ale.”

  “Gil—”

  “Ale, Janna.”

  She filled a cup. Gil reached below the bar and produced a stoppered bottle that could have been just as old as that clay tablet. The glass was clouded and stained, and the cork was as black as pitch. Gil placed the cup of ale on the tablet. Then he unstoppered the bottle and held it over the cup. Muttering to himself, he allowed three drops of clear pink liquid to drop into Miss Jackson’s ale.

  Tiller found that he was on his feet, straining to see what happened when the two liquids mixed. He saw nothing unusual, but he felt that same vibration in the floor that he felt when Janna cast her spells. Only stronger. Much stronger. It was as if the bar was a giant violin, and Gil had just dragged a bow across its strings.

  “What now?” Miss Jackson asked, sounding a little nervous.

  “Now, you drink,” Gil said. “Drink it all. And when you are done, go back to your home, and wait.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That is it.”

  She picked up her ale, hesitated for an instant, and then drank. It took her several minutes to finish the cup, and in all that time, no one spoke. When at last she finished, she looked expectantly at Gil.

  “Now he’ll come to me?”

  “I swear that he will,” Gil said. “Go home and wait.”

  “Yes, all right. Thank you.” Miss Jackson stood, pausing to eye Janna. Tiller thought she might say something, but in the end she merely turned away and hurried from the tavern.

  “What’d you do t’ her?” Janna asked, when the woman was gone.

  “I sent the man to her, just as she wanted.”

  Janna shook her head. “Tha’s no’ all you did. There’s always more with your magic.”

  “Tiller,” Gil said. “I am going to roast venison tonight. Will you stay and eat with us?”

  Tiller beamed. “Sure I will, Gil. Thank you.”

  “Good. In the meantime, have another ale.”

  Gil walked back to the kitchen, Janna staring after him. After a few seconds she seemed to remember that Tiller was still there.

  She filled a new cup with ale, and brought it to him.

  “Here you go, Tiller,” she said kindly.

  “I’m sorry, Janna. I shouldn’t have said anything to Miss Jackson.”

  “Don’ worry ’bout it,” she said. “Gil took care of it.”

  Tiller drank that second ale and two more, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the feeling of having his rent in this pocket. As the day wore on, and the sky outside the tavern began to darken, the great room filled with the scent of roasting meat, so that Tiller’s mouth watered and his stomach growled.

  More and more people came to the Fat Spider. By the time Gil emerged from the back bearing a huge platter of food, the tavern was as crowded as Tiller had ever seen it. Somehow, men and women from all over Boston knew to come. Maybe the smell of Gil’s venison had drifted through the streets. Maybe word of his feast had spread from home to home. Whatever the reason, it was a night unlike any Tiller could remember.

  He ate and he drank until he’d had his fill, and then he had more. Eventually he must have dozed off at his table by the hearth. When he woke, sometime later, most of the people were gone. Gil stood beside his chair, firelight dancing across his features and gleaming in his eyes.

  “I want you to stay here tonight, my friend. It is late for you to be walking home.”

  “But my cart. And Crumbs.”

  “They will be fine. You have my word.” Gil smiled. “Crumbs has eaten well.” He draped a blanket over Tiller and pulled over another chair so that Tiller could rest his legs. “Is there anything at your home that you need?” Gil asked. “Anything dear to you, that you must have?”

  “Just the picture of my Mama and Papa.”

  “A painting?” Gil asked.

  “A drawing.”

  “How big?”

  Tiller held his hands a few inches apart. “Like this.”

  Gil nodded. He strode back to the bar and spoke in low tones with Janna. She cast a quick glance Tiller’s way, but then nodded, drawing a small knife from a pocket of her dress. Tiller recognized the blade. It was the one Janna used when she drew blood from her arm for a conjuring.

  Tiller saw her step back into the kitchen. Moments later, he felt another pulse of magic. It was weaker than what he had felt when Gil made Miss Jackson her drink, but still it made the tavern floor hum.

  Janna reemerged from the kitchen, stepped out from behind the bar, and walked to Tiller’s makeshift bed carrying the portrait.

  “Here you go, darlin’,” she said. “Sleep well.”

  “Thank you, Janna,” Tiller whispered. He studied the drawing, front and back. It was his. He touched his fingers to his lips and then to the image of his parents. “Goodnight, Mama, Papa.”

  He propped the picture against the back of the second chair, settled back down, and was soon sleeping once more.

  He woke again several hours later. The tavern smelled strongly of smoke, and he could hear Janna and Gil speaking at the doorway, their voices lowered.

  “What’ve you done?” Janna asked him.

  “I have done nothing. I granted her wish. The rest she brought to the casting herself.”

  “Tha’s no’—”

  “You said it yourself,” Gil told her. “Her merchant has a wife. Did she not expect that when the man came to her, the wife would follow? Mary was foolish.”

  “Bu’ your spell—”

  “Did nothing more or less than I promised it would. Her man came to her. That he did so clumsily, making no attempt to hide his destination.... That is not my fault.”

  “His wife started th’ fire?”

  “I know nothing for certain.”

  “Sure you do,” Janna said, a smile in her voice.

  “If I were to guess, I would say that the fire started upstairs, in Mary’s bedchamber. And that many items were thrown in anger, including a candle or two, or perhaps an oil lamp.”

  “You a dangerous man, Gil.”

  Gil said nothing, and when Janna spoke again, she sounded worried.

  “It looks like th’ whole city’s burnin’.”

  “It is not. Only a portion of it.”

  “Still, look at it. Who knows how many’re dead?”

  “I know. None.”

  “Gil—”

  “None are dead, Janna. You have my word. You also have my word on this: she will not be back, and she will not threaten you again.”

  “Gil?” Tiller called. “What’s happened?”

  “Go back to sleep, my friend.”

  “What time is it?”

  “After midnight, but still several hours before dawn. You should be sleeping.”

  Tiller got up from his chair and crossed to the tavern entrance. “What’s happened, Gil?”

  Gil didn’t answer right away. “There is a fire.”

  “Where?”

  “Near your home. There was a great wind, and it pushed the flames all the way to the water’s edge.”

  Tiller peered out into the night. Janna was right. It did look like the whole city was ablaze. The sky over Boston glowed a baleful inconstant orange, and dark smoke billowed over the spires and rooftops.

  “I am sorry, Tiller,” the barman said, looking down at him.

  “That’s all right, Gil.” Tiller sensed that he was pardoning Gil for more than sad tidings. “Pushed them from where?”

  “What?”

  “Pushed the flames from where to the water?” But Tiller already knew the answer

  Gil glanced at Janna, who still stared out toward the city. “From th’ Brazen Head,” she said quietly. “Tha’s where this started.”

  “You say that Miss Jac
kson isn’t dead?” Tiller asked.

  “She is not,” Gil told him. “I swear it.”

  Tiller nodded. “Good. She gives me food sometimes.”

  Historical Note: Early in the morning on March 20, 1760, a fire started at Boston’s Brazen Head Tavern, which was owned by Mary Jackson. Driven by powerful winds, the fire consumed three hundred forty-nine buildings and homes, left more than a thousand people homeless, and destroyed more than one hundred thousand pounds worth of property. Miraculously, no one was killed. To this day, the cause of the fire is unknown.

  LAST CALL

  Patricia Bray

  THE first time I ‘met’ him was in a London coffeehouse, though I confess met is perhaps too strong a word for our brief encounter. Indeed I hardly noticed him at all when I stumbled inside, trembling as much from the night’s events as from the bitter November cold.

  It was just past dawn, but the coffeehouse was already bustling, the best seats by the fire taken up by a pair of haggling merchants. The serving boy eyed my disheveled appearance with disdain, but a flash of silver inspired him to fetch me a chocolate with due haste.

  I took a sip of the dark brew, hoping the sweetness would drown out the taste of my fear, then held the cup between both hands to warm them.

  It was my duty to report to my uncle at once. But I could not let him see me like this—my limbs shaking, fear-sweat soaking through my linens as my gorge rose in disgust. Archibald Harker was the greatest hunter the Order had ever known. While I was merely young George Harker, only son of his wastrel brother. An inconvenience at best, a distracting nuisance on those days he deigned to notice me.

  Last night had been my first night with the hunters. I’d been told to join Tom Porter as he kept watch over Madame D’Argent. A simple enough assignment and a chance to prove myself worthy of the Harker name.

  It had all gone wrong from the start. Tom had followed Madame’s coachman into a public house, leaving me to watch her residence on my own. But instead of summoning her carriage, Madame had slipped out the servant’s entrance. There had been no time to summon Tom. I had followed her on foot, growing deeply uneasy as she ventured into the poorer quarters, where no respectable woman would dare be seen. With each step I knew we had made a terrible mistake. Madame was not waiting for the full moon. Tonight was the night she would feed.